


Gone Where The Woodbine Twineth

by dodge62



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodge62/pseuds/dodge62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reckless night out in the woods leaves Stiles with a vicious bite... and a potentially deadly virus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bite

For a long while all he heard was the drip of the kitchen faucet. Eventually he became aware of Stiles’ breathing. He turned his head and watched him sleep, the bandage around his middle faintly outlined with the blood that had seeped from the wound. In his delirium, he had thrown the blankets off, so Derek walked over and settled him back down and then returned to his chair by the window.

He played back his conversation with Deaton for the hundredth time.

“It’s very serious, Derek. The werewolf that bit him was rogue, infected with lycan lyssavirus.”

“So he’ll turn at the next full moon. I’ll have to prepare him for it…”

“No, Derek, listen to me. Werewolves infected with the lyssavirus don’t impart the werewolf gene when they bite. They communicate the virus.”

“What does that mean?” Derek could feel the color draining from his face.

“It means that Stiles has been infected with rabies, Lycan rabies, the most virulent form of rabies we know. There is no known treatment or cure. Once the symptoms begin to appear, he’ll slowly go insane and in 2 to 5 days he’ll be dead.”

The words hung in the air between them like a frost. Derek had to take each phrase and process it separately, then string them together in his head to get any comprehension out of them.

“I thought rabies could be cured…” he said vacantly, staring at the floor, unable to process.

“Regular rabies, yes. But lycan lyssavirus is a completely different strain and, as you might expect, there isn’t much research that goes into supernatural diseases.”

“How long before…”

“He becomes symptomatic? Only a day or two. It will start with nervousness, anxiety, shortness of temper, and then get more serious from there. By the end, he’ll be completely lost to us, uncontrollable, vicious… do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“You’re telling me I’ll have to… destroy him?”

“The sooner the better. I have a hypo with me. Better to do it now while he’s still sleeping….”

Derek shook his head emphatically. “No. I want him to understand what’s happening.”

“Derek…”

“NO!” Derek looked up into Deaton’s eyes and held him in place. “We’ve never kept secrets and I can’t see starting now. Besides, he’d want to know. Leave the hypo with me and I’ll take care of it. He has that right, don’t you think?”

“Are you sure it’s for him you’re doing this?”

“For him… for us. They’re both the same.”

Deaton studied Derek for a long moment, but then Derek turned away and refused to look at him. “There isn’t enough in the hypo for two,” he said quietly. “If you try to stretch it you’ll only make a mess of things.”

Derek nodded slowly, not caring that Deaton seemed able to read his thoughts. He considered that he must be extremely transparent at the moment. At least that’s how he felt.

“Could you leave two?” Derek’s voice was hollow. It sounded to him like he was talking from very far away.

“No, Derek, I won’t do that.” Deaton’s voice was gentle, but firm. Derek knew he wouldn’t be able to sway him.

“Stiles’ 9mm is around here somewhere,” Derek said, looking vaguely around the room.

“And unless it’s loaded with silver and wolf’s bane all you’ll do is put yourself through needless trauma. Unless you use it on him.” Deaton nodded toward Stiles.

“No, I couldn’t do that. And neither could he.”

“I didn’t think so.” Somehow Deaton didn’t sound smug.

“You have answers for everything tonight.” Derek gripped at him. He wandered over to the bed and looked down at the sleeping Stiles, more handsome than the day before, like always. “You’re sure? Absolutely, 100% sure?”

“There’s no doubt. Listen, Derek, I want you to understand something.”

“There’s more?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night. And when I come I’ll bring help. If you haven’t been able to take care of the situation by then, I’ll have to take the matter out of your hands. Is that clear?”

“You’ll put a watch on the house, I guess.”

“You leave me no choice. Derek, why don’t you go out for a while? Come back in an hour.”

“To an empty room? Will you take his clothes and ransack the bathroom? Wipe his fingerprints off the plates and glasses? Wash his scent out of the sheets and pillowcases? No. Not a chance. Give me 24 hours. He’ll be ok for that long, won’t he?”

“More or less. But once he’s symptomatic, his condition will deteriorate very quickly. He’ll be terrified and if he throws a fit and bites you, you’ll be in a very bad way.”

“It will kill me?”

“No and that’s the problem. You’ll go mad, but you won’t die. It will be a never ending hell.”

“Isn’t that what hell is suppose to be?”

“Derek…”

“What if I gave him The Bite? Wouldn’t his new healing powers cure the virus?”

“Yes, but he’d still be a carrier, like the rogue that bit him. His bite would convey the virus, human or animal it wouldn’t make any difference. You’d run the risk of Beacon Hills becoming a charnel house.”

“So you’d have no choice.”

“No. Again, I’d be forced to take matters into my own hands. I’m sorry.”

“Leave the hypo,” Derek said, turning to look at him. I’ll take care of it.”

Deaton opened his bag, took out a small leather case and set it on the table. “In the arm or the buttocks, either one.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Derek repeated. “How much longer will he sleep?”

“Another couple of hours.” Deaton closed his bag. “I’m not comfortable with this, Derek. I don’t think it’s the best choice. It will lead to a lot of unnecessary suffering.”

“It’s not your decision,” Derek said flatly. “Not until this time tomorrow.”

Deaton acquiesced and showed himself out. When he closed the door behind him, Derek could feel the walls closing in. He walked to the window and looked down on the street below. He watched Deaton gain the far sidewalk, then turn and look up at him. A moment later two young men who Derek recognized as Argents joined him. He could hear Deaton giving them their instructions. “Shoot to kill.” The men nodded and then looked up at him. One of them smiled.

Derek moved away from the window and over to the bed. He picked up a damp towel from the nightstand and sat down next to Stiles. He gently wiped the sick sweat from his forehead and resettled him under the bed clothes. Stiles moaned in his nightmares and tried to sit up, but Derek gently pushed him back down. He stank, a smell overly sweet with a hint of corruption.

Derek replaced the towel and then took Stiles’ hand which closed tightly on his, the touch seeming to calm Stiles down. He sat with him until his breathing became more regular and he stopped his shifting, then he walked over to his chair by the window and sat down to think.


	2. Revelations

Stiles woke up around 2:00am, hungry and full of life. Derek was ready to crumble and Stiles’ bright mood wasn’t helping. Not at all.

He put on some soft jazz, Jo Stafford singing ‘Blue Moon’, and sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?

“Great! I’m starving, by the way. Did I mention that?” Stiles yawned and stretched his arms up over his head then suddenly sat bolt upright. “Ah… is that me?”

He cautiously lifted his right arm and gingerly sniffed at his armpit. “Oh, Christ! That is me. Maybe a wash first, huh?” He looked at Derek expectantly and laid back with his arms behind his head anticipating a warm and soapy sponge bath from his sexy boy friend. Instead, Derek threw back the covers and pulled Stiles out of the bed.

“Hey! Wounded man here! What…? Where are we going?” Stiles was indignant.

Derek dragged him into the bathroom, centered him front of the mirror, sat down on a stool and began to cut down through the bandages, maybe a little more roughly than he had to.

“Jesus, Derek, be careful! You want to scar me for life?”

“Too late!” Derek grimaced. He pulled the mess away, taking particular delight in pulling off the surgical tape as slowly as possible.

“Aaaggghhhh!” Stiles grabbed hold of Derek’s shoulders and dug in his nails. “I’m sorry if you couldn’t find any flies to torture today, but don’t take it out on me, okay?”

As he suspected, the wound was completely healed. Derek stood up, looking at his naked boyfriend while Stiles examined the spot where he’d been attacked in the mirror, not quite believing there wasn’t a trace of the bite or even scaring. His skin was glowing, his muscle tone perfect and Derek began to wonder if he hadn’t dreamt his conversation with Deaton.

He pulled off his clothes and started running some hot water. “Let’s go!” He insisted, wondering what he was going to say, How do you tell the only man you’ve ever loved that he’s going to die and that you’re going to be the one to carry it out. It was inconceivable to him.

“Well, if you insist,” Stiles said grinning, looking Derek up and down.

He went into the shower and Stiles followed like a happy puppy.

“Pretty lucky with that bite, huh? I thought there’d at least be a mark. Stupid dog…”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go into the woods at night,” Derek said flatly, lathering up a washcloth. Where that had come from he didn’t know. It was as though he wasn’t in control of himself.

Stiles waited for Derek to apply the cloth to his back, but instead Derek started washing himself, completely lost in what he was feeling and saying. Stiles turned around and watched him, his arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah? And what’s that suppose to mean?”

“Just what I said.”

“No, Derek, say what you really mean.”

Derek stopped his scrubbing and turned to face Stiles. “Ok. Did you go into the woods to meet Danny?”

Stiles looked away, then turned from him and started soaping himself. “Where’d you get that?”

“When they were taking off your clothes at the hospital, your cell dropped out of your pocket. Danny’s text was still on the screen.”

“I don’t suppose you considered that he just wanted to talk.”

“When people want to talk they go to Starbucks.”

“Well, you’ve made up your mind, so I don’t even know why we’re talking about it,” Stiles said, getting out of the shower.

Derek didn’t say anything, unbelievably angry with himself that he couldn’t let something so trivial as a make-out session pass considering what they were facing. But then he realized how angry he was at Stiles. If he’d only stayed in that night. If he’d only left 5 minutes earlier or later. If he only wasn’t about to lose his exquisite lover to brutal, uncompromising insanity. And so he took it out on the boy in petty attacks, because he didn’t know how to break it to him. Amazing what raw nerves could conceive. He turned off the water and got out of the shower.

Stiles had wrapped his towel around his waist and was checking his face in the mirror. Derek came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him. Stiles tensed and Derek could tell that he was barely tolerating him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Stiles’ ear.

“Yeah, so am I.” Stiles unwrapped Derek’s arms and started out the door. “I have to find something to wear,” he said shutting the door behind him.

Derek dried off and opened the bathroom door to find Stiles examining the leather case Deaton left behind. “What’s this?”

“Dr. Deaton left it,” Derek said as calmly as he could. The voice in his head finished the thought, “I’m supposed to kill you with it later.”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders and went about finding something to wear.

“Stiles, we need to talk.”

“I think we’ve already done that. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t find it very productive.” He dropped his towel and bent over to pull on a pair of boxer shorts. “It’s no wonder you have such a nice body, Derek, jumping to conclusions all day…” A sudden and painful spasm stumbled him onto the bed. “SHIT!”

“STILES!” Derek ran across the room and cuddled next to him. “Try and lie still a minute. Hopefully it will pass.”

“Hopefully? Christ that hurts! Goddamn dog!” Stiles let himself ease back against Derek, the pain ebbing slightly. “ “The damn thing packed quite a punch.”

“Stiles, it wasn’t a dog.”

Stiles pushed Derek away and got up off the bed. “Yes. It was.” He struggled into his boxers, obviously still in a lot of pain.

“Stiles…”

“It was a dog, Derek. I saw it, you didn’t. It was too small to be… well, it was just too small, ok.” He continued getting dressed.

“It was a werewolf, Stiles. A rogue. That may account for its size.”

“I don’t know what your problem is tonight, Derek. You seem determined to pulverize my mood no matter what.” He shoved some dirty clothes into his backpack and then picked up his keys off the nightstand.

“What are you doing?” Derek saw the situation spinning out of his control.

“I’m going home. I don’t feel like taking shit off of you all night. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Stiles…”

Don’t worry, I left my toothbrush.”

Derek jumped off the bed and slid across the floor so he was between Stiles and the door. “You can’t leave.”

“Derek, have you gone nuts?”

“I need you to listen to me. Will you listen to me?”

Stiles sighed and dropped his bag on the floor. “This had better be good, Hale.”

“Come with me… come.” Derek took his by the arm and led him to the window. “Look out there.”

“Out where?”

“Across the street.”

Stiles moved closer to the window and studied the man leaning against the lamp post near his jeep. “Ok. So?”

“He’s an Argent. I’ve seen him before. If either of us tries to leave he has orders to kill us.”

Stiles stared at Derek as though he had lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you we have to talk.”

“What have the Argents got to do with my having a night out with Danny?”

Derek was dumbfounded by the logic. “What? No… no, no. Christ! Forget about Danny. I don’t care about Danny.”

“That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.” Stiles walked back and picked up his bag. “Listen, Derek, I don’t know what’s eating you tonight and right now I don’t care. I just want to go home, okay?”

“Stiles, listen to me…”

“No, Derek. I’m tired and you’re acting crazy. I’ll call you tomorrow, ok? I love you…”

“STILES!”

“WHAT?”

Derek realized that unless he was willing to tackle him and tie him up, he was never going to stay. “Let me walk out with you, ok?”

Stiles stared at him for a minute and then reluctantly nodded his head. Derek raced back into the bathroom and as soon as he was out of sight Stiles ran out the door, closing it behind him.

Derek came out of the bathroom pulling on a t-shirt. He noticed Stiles was already gone and was running towards the door when he heard gunshots rattling off the concrete outside. The next moment steps were running up the stairs outside his loft. He threw back the door in time for Stiles to fall into his arms, a crossbow bolt through his left shoulder.

Derek slammed the door and locked it.

“There’re two of them,” Stiles said, trying to catch his breath. “The one with the gun is going to blow his foot off one of these days, but the crossbow guy? Let me tell you, he’s down with his shit. Do I need to tell you how much this fucking thing hurts?”

Derek helped him over to a chair and carefully sat him down. He examined the wound, then went to the kitchen for his medical kit. When he returned, Stiles was close to passing out. He turned him slightly and eased him back against the chair, then ripped off his t-shirt and prepared for minor surgery.

“Derek?” Stiles voice was shaking.

“Yeah?”

“I’m in some deep shit, huh?”

Derek knelt down in front of him and gently wiped away a tear. “Oh, Stiles, you have no idea.”


	3. The Truth Comes Out

“They still out there?” Stiles asked sleepily.

“Yes.” Derek was leaning against the wall looking out the window. “Not the same ones, though.”

“Like it matters.” Stiles was propped up on the bed, his shoulder neatly wrapped and a half-finished sandwich on a plate beside him. “This is like one of those old gangster movies where they have the bad guys surrounded and they have to shoot their way out.”

“We can try that if you want.” Derek was resigned to anything but the outcome Deaton had prescribed. Several different options were running through his mind, but they all ended with Stiles dead and him either severely wounded or also dead.

“Would it make a difference?” Stiles asked.

“Probably not.”

Derek went over the options again. If they ran, Stiles would go crazy and try to kill him. If they stayed in the loft, Stiles would go crazy and try to kill him. And if they did nothing, Deaton would show up and kill Stiles. It seemed like Stiles died no matter what.

“Did you find your cell phone?” Derek asked, grasping at straws now.

“No. Maybe I left it at the hospital. Did you call it?”

“Yeah, but it just rings. I tried calling your dad, but it keeps dropping the call. Same thing when I try the sheriff’s station or Scott.”

“Sounds like someone’s intercepting the calls.” Stiles was watching the window lighten from dark gray to purple. 

Derek counted off the hours again for the thousandth time without looking at the clock and guessed they had about 16 hours left.

After Derek had fixed Stiles’ shoulder, he had given him something to help him sleep and he had dropped off for a few hours. When he woke up, Derek had fixed them sandwiches and coffee. They had eaten in silence, Stiles feeling nervous and tired, while Derek just sulked.

Stiles knew that waiting wasn’t going to make this any easier, so he settled himself as comfortably as he could and then patted the bed beside him. “Derek?”

Derek took a deep breath and dragged himself across the room. Rather than sitting on the bed, he curled up alongside his damaged lover with his back to him and prepared for the worst.

“So, what’s this all about?”

“Do you want the long, drawn out version, or the short, brutal version?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Derek took a deep breath and let it out. He rolled over, put his arms around Stiles and laid his head on his chest.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Stiles whispered, almost to himself.

“The werewolf that bit you was infected with rabies. Lycan rabies. It’s incurable and within the next 24 to 48 hours you’ll have gone completely, irrevocably insane. Your bite will be infectious and the only way to stop you…” Derek paused and then took in another deep breath and let it out. “The only way to stop you…” he stumbled and didn’t try to continue.

“…is to kill me,” Stiles finished for him.

Derek nodded.

“Is that what the case on the table is for?”

“It’s a hypo overloaded with hypnotic and muscle relaxant.”

“Sounds very thorough. Are you going to use it?”

“No. Deaton will be back here about 10 o’clock tonight. So we have 16 hours, more or less, to figure this out.”

“Figure what out, Derek? How fine a line we can cut before either I go insane or Deaton kills me?”

Stiles head was reeling, trying to process what Derek had told him. Like most people, he couldn’t accept that his death was imminent. The idea beat against his incredulity and then went to ground, but he knew it would be back.

Derek pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. “I could give you The Bite,” he said this in a flat, unceremonious tone.

“Would it help?” Derek could tell that Stiles wasn’t thrilled by the prospect.

“Yes, but Deaton won’t buy it. If I give it, your curative powers will keep the virus at bay except during the full moon. When you turn, you’ll be uncommonly vicious and aggressive, and your bite will be infectious.”

“So, I’ll be a carrier and the virus could spread exponentially.”

“Yes.”

Stiles reached out with his right hand and rubbed Derek’s back. He thought of his dad and of Scott, but mostly he thought of Derek and how difficult it would be to leave him, especially if he had no say in the matter.

He had gone to the woods to fuck Danny. That thought was foremost in his mind. He had always thought that Derek would be a match for his considerable libido, but after 2 years together he had started to feel the itch. He knew that Danny would be up for it and he had convinced himself that it was just sex and took nothing away from his relationship with Derek. Except now he was going to die.

“I’m so sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry.” Stiles swung his legs off the bed and slowly stood up, the pain in his shoulder blinding him for a minute, but then his vision cleared and he stumbled over the table and picked up the case.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, getting up off the bed.

“Taking care of the inevitable.”

Derek was on him before he could finish the sentence. He didn’t have any trouble yanking the case out of Stiles’ good hand. 

“Derek…”

“Not yet, just not yet. We still have time.”

“Time for what? A miracle breakthrough? Another brilliant idea? Heavenly intersession? It’s over, Derek. We’ve been run to ground because of my epic stupidity.”

“We’re not done yet.”

Stiles looked at him for a long time, then opened up on him. “You were right. I went to the woods to fuck Danny. Do you know why? Because you bore me, Derek. After two short years, I’m stuptifyingly, bone numbingly… bone… what the fuck are you smiling at?”

“You.” Derek smirked.

“You take infidelity very well. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“I know what you’re doing, Stiles, and it won’t work.”

“It won’t, huh? Well, it’s true! As a matter of fact, if this hadn’t happened I was going to leave you.”

“For Danny.”

“Yes! For Dan… well, no. I mean, maybe not Danny, but somebody. Maybe just to play the field. How about that! I was going to pack my bags…”

Derek didn’t say a word. He simply held out the case.

"What?”

Derek didn’t reply. He just kept his hand extended with the case within easy reach.

And it was then that Stiles realized what he had known since that first day in the woods. That Derek loved him unconditionally and didn’t care if he fucked Danny, or anyone. Derek just loved him, with all his faults, wit and silly machinations. And he knew that Stiles loved him back and always would, and would always find his way home. And to show it, he was calling his bluff. 

Stiles crumbled. He took the case from Derek and laid it back on the table, then wrapped himself around his handsome, generous lover. Through his tears he found Derek’s lips and mouth, and he poured himself into the man, his love and attraction intensified by the awful foreknowledge of his impending death. He was frantic for him and for the last time.

Derek carried him to the bed, set him down and ripped his clothes off. Stiles returned the favor. None of it was gentle and the two of them threw themselves at each other, mauling and biting. Stiles bandage was ripped off in the ruckus and his wound re-opened, smearing blood in with the sweat and the spit. 

Without preamble, Derek pulled Stiles up on his cock and they fucked with such desperation as the situation demanded. They came at the same time, Stiles’ milk shooting up between them while they grunted in one another’s ears that they loved one another beyond all reason and would somehow find a way out of the mess they were in.

Exhausted but hardly satiated, Derek took Stiles back into the shower and washed and kissed and massaged him, extending their love making until some sort of clarity returned and they agreed it was time to tackle the situation at hand.

They shaved, combed and dressed, silently agreeing that before anything else, they needed to get out of the loft. They would decide on their next move from there. They crouched over the table and laid their plans while Stiles checked his 9mm and loaded a second magazine.

“There you guys are! Why aren’t you answering your phones? Anybody hungry?”

They spun around, surprised out of their wits by Scott and his bright, unexpected arrival. They were both too shocked to speak so they just stared.

Scott was stopped in his tracks by their looks. He checked his fly, brushed his hands through his hair, looked behind him.

“What?” he finally asked.


	4. Scott Takes Charge

10:57AM

“I’m not going to let you die.” Scott was hunched over the table staring at Stiles with an intensity he had never seen in his friend before.

“You prefer complete and total bat shit… tery?”

“Of course not.”

“So then what’s Plan B?” Stiles was spinning his 9mm around like a top until Derek slammed his hand over it and slid it over to his side of the table. Stiles sulked.

“You mean Plan A,” Scott said, taking charge. Once he had gotten the whole story out of them he recognized that both Derek and Stiles were so far beyond being objective that it was impossible for either of them to make any effective decisions. “Whatever involves killing you or letting you go crazy is off the table. How much time do we have?”

Derek looked at his watch. “Less than 12 hours.”

“How do you feel?” Scott asked Stiles.

“How would you feel, Scott? My doctor wants to kill me, my boyfriend is trying not to kill me, but may have to and now my best friend is here with some vague plan to, I don’t know, keep all those little lyssavirus spirochetes from turning my brain into condominiums. So, yeah, do whatever magic or razzmatazz or pissing up a rope you have to do to get me out of this!” Stiles voice went from calm to enraged in quick succession and at the end he slammed his hand down on the table with a terrific bang. The table slamming seemed to release his anxiety and he hung his head and took a couple of deep breaths. “Does that answer your question?”

Derek reached his hand across the table, but Stiles pushed it away. That’s when Scott lunged at him and grabbed him by his t-shirt, yanking him up so their faces were only inches apart.

“I know this is rough on you, but if we’re going to get your ass free of this I need you to get control of yourself and stop with the bullshit. We’re here to help you. Is that absolutely, 100% crystal clear? Because if it’s not, I’m outta here and I’m taking Derek with me, and we’ll be back in a couple of days to clean up the mess.”

Stiles’ eyes were twice their normal size and he went white in the face, the shock of Scott’s admonishment hitting him like a bucket of ice water. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his friend and after a moment he simply nodded and Scott shoved him back in his chair. Derek watched, his face emotionless. Stiles reached out and took Derek’s hand, looking at him like a whipped dog. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. Derek squeezed his hand and nodded.

“We can’t run down our options sitting here, so the first thing we need to do is break out. Derek, will you come with me?

Scott got up and Derek followed him, not sure what Scott was thinking, but trusting him enough to go along. Stiles looked from one to the other, obviously panicked. “What about me?”

“You stay here,” Scott told him. “We won’t be very long. But you stay right here. Is that clear?”

Stiles nodded like a schoolboy nods to his priest after confession. Scott started toward the door, but then stopped and turned back to the table. He confiscated Stiles’ 9mm and the simple black case that seemed so omniscient, then he looked back at Stiles.

“Right here.”

Stiles nodded again and resettled himself in his chair.

Scott and Derek walked out of the loft and Derek turned to close the door.

“Make sure you lock it,” Scott told him, then they started down the stairs.

“You were pretty rough on him, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t like doing it, believe me. But we can’t let him start feeling sorry for himself. Understand?”

Derek nodded. “Where are we going by the way?

I’m going outside to talk to the Argents. You stay here and we’ll double team them when they come in.”

“How…?”

“I don’t know. Derek. I’m making this up as I go along.” Scott flashed him a toothy grin and headed out the door.

After a few minutes of conversation with the not-too-bright hunters, they headed into the building with Scott bringing up the rear. They were dutifully dispatched as they came inside.

“What did you say to them?” Derek asked, dragging one of them into a nearby broom closet.

“I told them that Stiles had suddenly gone completely insane and that you knocked him out, but now we needed them to come up and finish the job, because we couldn’t kill our best friend.”

Derek looked at him with an expression that mixed horror and disgust. Scott merely shrugged. “When you’re dealing with the lowest common denominator, you need to speak to them in ways they understand.”

They deposited the second hit man in the closet and made sure they had relieved them of all weapons and cell phones before tying them up.

“Now, go fetch your problem child and let’s get out of here,” Scott said, wiping his hands on one of the men’s pants.

12:10PM

They pulled up in front of a cheap apartment complex, well-away from the center of town.

“Where are we?” Stiles asked, battling an increasing apprehension.

“You’ll see,” was all Scott said.

They walked to the end of a dingy hallway and Scott threw open an apartment door without knocking. Stiles hesitated, but Derek put an arm around him and they followed Scott in, Derek swinging the door shut with his foot once they were inside.

Gerard sat in his wheel chair, black soiled tissues against his nose and mouth, the floor around him littered with white tufts of grungy mess. His clothes were wrinkled and food-stained, and he hadn’t shaved in a while.

“Excuse the mess, gentlemen. The cleaning staff is becoming increasing lax in their duties.”

Stiles and Derek were completely taken aback at seeing Gerard, but it was obvious Scott had been here several times.

“You know why we’re here?” Scott asked.

Gerard took his time answering. His rheumy eyes drifted from Scott to Stiles and then to Derek where they hesitated before drifting back to Stiles. He pulled the tissue away from his face revealing a broad grin.

“In the wrong place at the wrong time, Mr. Stilinski? Come over here, please.”

Stiles eased over to him, looking back at Derek for re-assurance. Gerard snatched his hands and studied the nails, then pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and studied the skin tone of the lower arms. Then he looked up into his face and with a grimy thumb pushed back Stiles’ eyelids, one after the other, so he could study the color and luminosity of his eyes.

“Lycan rabies,” he said matter of factly, releasing Stiles and recovering his wad of tissue just in time to stem a new flow of black ink streaming out of his nose. “It was nice knowing you,” he grinned from behind his massed nasally wad.

“Dr. Deaton says it’s hopeless,” Scott told him, somewhat derisively.

“Maybe,” Gerard said. “Depends on who you talk to. In these matters, it’s always good to get a second opinion.”

Scott glanced at Stiles and then back to Gerard. “So it’s not hopeless.”

“A treatment may or may not exist, but I’m inclined to let the disease run its course. The thought of Mr. Stilinski tied to a hospital bed, mouth foaming, back arched to the point of breaking, trying to chew off his own arms is strangely comforting to me.”

“How would you feel about me chewing off your arms right now, you decrepit fuck?” Stiles lurched forward, but Derek caught him by the shoulder and pulled him back.

Gerard blanched, but then quickly regained his composure. “The early stages of dementia have already begun. You realize that he only has 10 or 12 hours left before he becomes a raving lunatic. Why you’re dragging him around town is beyond me.”

"We’d like you to give us the treatment, Gerard.”

The old man laughed so hard that Scott was worried he might expire on the spot. The black ink flew from nose, ears and mouth like a gargoyle vomiting bilge water.

“And lose the satisfaction of knowing that Mr. Stilinski will die one of the most horrible deaths imaginable? Why would I do that?”

“We could just sit here until he starts to drool on himself and then leave you alone with him, but that would be counter-productive. Wouldn’t it.”

Gerard worked to keep the discomfort off his face, but then relaxed and was almost charming. “I suppose it depends on how you look at it. What else ya got?”

“An offer.”

“A deal? A deal?? I give up one of the most archaic, sought after cures in the annals of lycanthropy for what, mastermind? You tell me. For what?”

“I can make the ink go away.”


	5. Chapter 5

1:00pm

“Scott, goddamnit, what are you thinking?” Stiles was curled up in the back seat of Scott’s car, leaning against Derek. He was doubled over with cramps, sweating and shivering violently. It was obvious that time was running out.

“You need to trust me, Stiles.”

Scott was weaving in and out of traffic, accelerating then slamming on his brakes to avoid other cars and witless pedestrians. All of this wasn’t doing anything to help Stiles’ mood.

“For fuck’s sake, slow down!” Stiles moaned. “What are your trying to do?”

“Save your life. Just hang on, buddy. We still have a ways to go.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Ah… I’m still working on it.”

“Oh Jesus, shoot me now,” Stiles mumbled dropping his head into Derek’s lap.

“Not yet, Stiles. You gotta hang in there.”

Scott was looking from the road to his rear view mirror to his side mirrors.

“Where are we going?” Derek asked, wrapping his arm around Stiles to keep him from sliding forward and slamming into the front seat.

“You’ll see. Hey, Derek, how much do you love Stiles?”

“You have to ask?”

“Good. Then just follow my lead.”

Ten minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of Dr. Deaton’s clinic. Derek looked at the building with mounting apprehension.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“You got a better idea?”

“No, but… hell, Scott, I don’t even know what the idea is!”

“Then keep quiet and help me get Stiles inside.”

The gently pulled Stiles out from the back seat and helped him into the clinic.

“What are you doing here? More to the point, why did you bring him here?” It was evident that Deaton wasn’t at all happy about having Stiles on the premises. "And what's all this?"

Derek was unloading the contents of a backpack on Deaton's desk: pitols, mini-crossbows, cell phones.

"You can return them to the Argents when you drop by for a drink or something," Scott said smiling.

"Are they ok? The men?" Deaton was doing a cursory examination of it all, clearly exasperated.

“They'll be fine.  Nothing a few asprin won't take care of. We have to talk, doc. I have a plan, but we’re going to need your help.”

“Scott, I…” he looked at Stiles, pale and sweating, leaning against a wall. “You better put him on the examination table.”

Derek lifted Stiles up and gently placed him on the table. Deaton started to examine him, then glanced up at Scott.

“You can cure Gerard of the black bile.” It wasn't a question; Scott was resolute in his commitment to Stiles.

Deaton paused in his examination and looked at Scott, truly horrified.

“You can’t be serious. What does that have to… Gerard told you he can cure the lyssavirus, didn’t he.”

“Yes.”

“Well, he can’t. No one can. I told you that. Dragging this poor kid around like this chasing down false hopes is only making matters worse.’

“You told my mother that you would always look after me; keep me safe,” Derek said quietly. He was holding Stiles’ hand, tears were welling up in his eyes.

“You know I did, but that doesn’t have anything to do…”

“Alan, if Stiles dies… if we have to put him down… it’ll finish with me.”

“Finish… you’d kill yourself? Do you understand what you’re saying?”

“Yes. Do you doubt it?”

“No. No, of course not.”

Stiles moaned and jerked on the table, trying to get up on one elbow.

“No. You can’t, Derek. Don’t be a fucking idiot!” It was taking all of Stiles’ strength to confront Derek.

Derek moved to put his arms around him and whispering into his ear, he laid him back down and gently brushed his hair back from his pale, sweating forehead.

“Does Gerard have the cure?” Scott asked again.

Deaton wandered away from the 3 of them and stood for a moment looking out the window, running his long fingers up and down his stethoscope. Finally, he turned back to Derek and Scott.

“What Gerard has is a long shot. He derived it from ancient texts over a period of about 10 years. To my knowledge, he’s never had the opportunity to try it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about it?” Derek gaze was accusatory and unflinching.

“I don’t know how the process works. I’ve only heard rumors. I didn’t tell you about it, because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. And because I knew Gerard would never use it to treat Stiles… but then I never considered curing him as leverage.”

“But you can cure him?” Scott moved from beside Derek to face Deaton directly.

“Fairly easily. I can’t guarantee that his cancer won’t eventually return, but that’s a chance he’d have to take.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Deaton looked at Derek. “You understand that if I cure him, his health will return to better than normal, at least for a while, maybe permanently. You’re asking me to revive a cunning and dangerous… madman. Are you sure it’s worth it?”

“Maybe after you cure him, we can lock him up,” Scott was looking at Derek for some support, but Derek wouldn’t take his eyes off Stiles.

“No. He’s too smart for that. I’m afraid that we’re looking at some very strenuous negotiations before we see Stiles healed… if he can heal him at all. So the question remains. Is Stiles’ life worth placing Gerard back in play?”

“Stiles and Derek,” Scott corrected him.

“You don’t leave me much of a choice, gentlemen. Working to save two lives certainly outweighs leaving Gerard an invalid.”

Deaton took a minute to examine Stiles and then looked at his watch.

“It’s a little after 2:00pm and Stiles’ condition is deteriorating quicker than I expect. We only have a few hours. If Gerard realizes this, he’ll use it against us. Scott, you go get him and bring him back here.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Try and bring Stiles back to life.”


	6. Chapter 6

3:30pm

Viciousness is palpable and it clung to Gerard like a pall. Crouched in his wheelchair, his shifty eyes half hidden by whatever wad of tissue he pressed against his face, he regarded them all with fierce distrust.

“You do know how to cure me?” he asked Dr. Deaton, his voice raspy and hollow.

Deaton only nodded. “But first tell me the cure for Stiles.”

“At an impasse already? I should have known.” He let the tissue fall from his face, grabbed the wheels either side of the chair and started to spin it around. Scott set his foot against one of the rubber rims and stopped him cold.

“The night you forced Derek to give you the bite, you nearly turned. Only the mountain ash stopped you,” he stated calmly.

“Your point?”

“Curing you first could leave you free to turn. Even at your age, you could overpower Derek and me and get away.”

Gerard grinned, the spaces between his teeth dyed coal black from the ever-flowing ink.

“That’s just a chance you’ll have to take.” He wheeled himself over to where Stiles was sitting and looked closely at him, then back at Scott.

“You’ve tried to prop him up, but it’s quite clear that the disease is taking its usual course.” He turned back to Stiles. “Have the terrors started yet? The anxiety? It’s so irrational, but you can’t reason it away. And it’s only going to get worse.”

“Get him away from me,” Stiles whispered hoarsely. He grabbed Derek’s hand and buried his face in his belly. His shoulders heaved with uncontrollable sobs.

Gerard only shrugged. “Time’s running out for him, Alan. You know it and so do I. So what’s it going to be?” Gerard settled himself deeper in his chair, his right hand pulling the tissue away long enough spit out his ultimatum.

Scott lifted up his t-shirt and pulled out Stiles’ 9mm. He set it on the side-table with an ominous clunk. From his pocket he took out a box of wolfsbane shells and rattled them before the old man. Gerard noticed that the box had once belonged to Kate. One of them had nearly killed Derek that night so long ago, when poor Stiles was poised to cut off Derek’s arm with a surgical saw.

“You’ll go first,” was all Scott said. He ejected the magazine from the pistol’s handle and began feeding the murderous shells in, one by one.

Deaton nodded to Derek. He pulled Gerard from the wheelchair and laid him on the examination table.

“What’s the process then?”

“Actually, it’s a very simple procedure. I’m surprised you didn’t work it out for yourself.”

“Well?”

“Kanima venom in a 7% solution of saline administered intravenously.”

Gerard began to laugh so hard that his body bounced on the table. Then it stopped abruptly and he eyed Deaton suspiciously. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Your problem is that the mountain ash Scott tricked you into taking is causing your body to resist The Bite. Hence the black ink. But, as the Kanima is immune to mountain ash…”

“Since when?”

“Since always. You never were very good at preternatural chemistry, Gerard. Now will you lay back and let me do my work or should I have Scott take you home… along with Stiles?”

Gerard glanced back over his shoulder at the pale, shivering Stiles, greasy sweat matting his hair and soaking through his t-shirt.

“I think you’d better hurry,” the old man said, lying back down.

It took more than 2 hours for the IV to empty completely into Gerard’s frail body. As the liquid slowly fed down the long, clear tube, Gerard gradually improved. His skin tone became clear and bright, and color returned to his cheeks. The flow of black goo stalled and then stopped altogether. Shape and tone returned to his arms, neck and chest. By the end of the procedure, he looked ten years younger than when Scott had wheeled him in.

Through it all, too, Stiles’ condition had continued to deteriorate, like some tragic reverse barometer. He held Derek’s hand and alternated between crying softly and curling up into a tight ball as fear and paranoia came over him in waves.

About mid-way through the procedure, Scott surreptitiously reached into his pocket and eased out his phone. Without looking at the keypad he gently punched in four simple numbers and then returned the phone to his pocket, with no one the wiser.

As soon as Dr. Deaton removed the IV from Gerard’s arm, the man was off the table, at first holding onto the edge to steady himself, but then moving around at will, testing his strength and vitality.

“This is amazing! I haven’t felt this good in years! Shall we see just how good a job you did, Alan?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Gerard threw up his arms and the transformation sped through his body like a lightening bolt. The idea that the cure for Gerard’s malady lay in Kanima venom wasn’t lost on Scott, but what the old man twisted into wasn’t a Kanima Beta. It was the terrible winged alpha. One of ferocious temperament.

Scott reached for the pistol, but he was knocked aside by the flailing tail and slashing wing tips left deep gashes in both Deaton and Derek as they worked to subdue the thing, all without much success. 

Stiles was beside himself. He jumped up screaming and tried to climb the wall behind him. It took all of Derek’s strength and tenderness to pull the boy down from the wall and cradle him in bloody arms so he wouldn’t hurt himself. Stiles punched and tore at him with ragged knuckles and fractured finger nails, but Derek just cradled him closer until the boy collapsed exhausted.

With a frightening speed and purpose, the creature tore away the railing in the waiting room and made for the front door, and hence the open parking lot where he’d take to the sky and be lost to them forever. Scott searched frantically for the pistol until he saw it wrapped tightly in the Kanima’s tail.

The clinic doorway posed a temporary conundrum, its narrow width much smaller than Gerard’s scaly shoulders and leathery wings. But then it was torn away and tossed away like an old screen door. Gerard took one last look back, an action he couldn’t resist…

When the turbulent blasts from the fire hoses slammed into him, the torrent forced him back into the clinic and splayed him against the far wall of the waiting room. Like the Wicked Witch of the West, water was the Kanima’s mortal enemy and try though he might to maintain his form, the creature gradually gave way to a shivering, drenched Gerard.

The flow of water ceased and Sheriff Stilinski slogged into the demolished room followed by several firemen. He reached down and pulled Gerard up by shirt and skin, bringing him up face to face with him.

“How’s my son, you rusting piece of shit?”


	7. Chapter 7

6:17pm

The sheriff dragged a drenched and squeaking Gerard back into the examination room while motioning to the firemen to clear away the tangled web of hoses and debris.

“You’ve made your point, sheriff. How about calming down and lowering that canon you’re pointing at me?”

“How about healing my son before I turn your head into a drainage ditch.”

Gerard shrugged at this and sloughed out of his wet shirt. His physique was that of a 30 year old and the fact wasn’t lost on the sheriff or anyone else in the room. Deaton gave Gerard a towel and a green operating smock. Gerard chatted while he dressed.

“The reason this operation is virtually unknown is because it requires the full cooperation of a werewolf who loves the human patient enough to risk dying for him.”

“What? What was that?” Stiles roused himself from his shaking and crying long enough to understand Gerard’s statement and react to it.

"The procedure requires a werewolf, preferably an alpha…” he nodded perfunctorily at Derek, “…to consent to a blood transfusion. Essentially, he trades his blood for that of the patient so that the virus is washed out completely. The alpha blood is then returned to the werewolf donor where his natural healing powers destroy the virus.”

“What's so dangerous about that?” Derek queried.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” The old man grinned wickedly. “Did I mention that before the alpha blood is transfused, it must pass through a filter containing wolfsbane? That won’t affect Stiles in the least, in fact, it will assist greatly in his healing. But when the blood is returned to the alpha…” Gerard merely shrugged.

“What your proposing would be fatal to Derek,” Deaton cautioned, glancing from Gerard to Derek and back again.

“Nonsense,” Gerard scoffed. “I estimate his chance of survival at, oh, 25%. Maybe even 30%. But, Derek, if you’d rather not…”

“I’m ready. Tell me what to do…”

“NO!” Stiles was struggling to get up from his chair, but he could barely stand. As soon as he was on his feet, he collapsed like a rag doll. Only Derek’s preternatural speed kept him from smashing his face into the floor.

Derek rolled him over and cradled him in his arms. Stiles eyes cleared momentarily and he ran trembling fingers down the side of Derek’s face.

“This is my fault. Don’t do this. I don’t want you to do this. Do you still have the shot?”

Derek smiled at him, but then he noticed that Stiles eyes clouded over again and the boy lunged at him with bared teeth and fetid breath. Flecks of foam gathered at the sides of his mouth. Derek grabbed Stiles throat and held his head steady while the boy growled and snapped at him.

“Time is short,” Gerard ventured, to no one’s surprise. “Better get him up on the table.” It was clear that Gerard was utterly fascinated by the transformation Stiles was suffering. Lycan lyssavirus was exceedingly rare and when it did happen, the victim often ran away, a complete lunatic, to die wretched and alone in the woods or abandoned buildings, or they were simply put down by pistol or ax.

In short order Stiles was bound to the examination table, his sodden t-shirt removed and a rubber tube tied around his upper left arm. Derek pulled a side table over, pulled off his shirt and lay down while Gerard prepared the wolfsbane filter, a preparation watched closely by Dr. Deaton.

The apparatus improvised to carry out the procedure wasn’t a simple one and had Dr. Deaton had access to a hospital he would have insisted that the operation be carried out there. But it was clear that such precautions were superfluous given Stiles’ rapidly deteriorating condition.

So, the filter was placed in a beaker and hung from a metal stand placed between the tables along with a small pump that would deliver the alpha blood into Stiles. On the Stiles side of the filter, a secondary filter was placed to ensure that no debris from the wolfsbane entered Stiles’ system, an occurrence that could prove fatal.

“Are you ready? Gerard asked Derek who swallowed hard and nodded his consent. Gerard nodded to Deaton who carefully inserted a needle into Derek’s arm attached to a clear tube running down to the filter. Immediately his blood began to flow into the beaker.

Deaton nodded to Scott to help hold Stiles still, but the sheriff gently eased him back and placed his weight on Stiles’ shoulders. The boy lunged and snarled at him, but the sheriff’s strong hands were just out of reach.

Deaton inserted the needle into Stiles’ arm, an action that immediately caused the boy to jump and snap, then taped it securely into place. When the beaker was half full, Deaton switched on the pump and the filtered alpha blood flowed into Stiles’ left arm. A secondary system, almost identical to the first except without the wolfsbane filter, then pumped the blood from Stiles back into Derek.

For nearly 45 minutes nothing changed. Stiles’ condition continued to worsen and Derek watched him closely while seemingly suffering no ill effects. But at 7:00pm Derek began to moan and shudder. Deaton and Scott immediately secured his arms and legs and watched with trepidation as the veins in his neck and arms bulged and discolored.

“The assumption is that the wolfsbane should be nearly spent by the time it’s returned to the alpha, but it’s impossible to be sure,” Gerard speculated, rubbing his stubbly chin.

“Has this procedure ever been carried out successfully?” Deaton asked.

Gerard grinned at him. “To my knowledge, it’s never been carried out at all. We’re making medical history here, gentlemen… of a supernatural kind, to be sure, so it will never be written up in the New England Journal of Medicine… but historic nonetheless.”

“The side-effects…?” Deaton didn’t finish, his mind reeling at the possible consequences.

“Oh, numerous and possibly even deadly,” Gerard nodded sagely. “But you were aware of the alternatives.”

It was clear that while Derek’s reaction to the transfusion was causing him increasing pain and discomfort, the opposite was true of Stiles. As the operation carried on toward 8:00 o’clock, the boy calmed considerably, his violent actions gradually easing until he opened his eyes, clear and golden, and looked up at his father.

“Dad?”

The sheriff came around the table to his son’s side and gently eased his tangled hair off his forehead.

“It’s alright, son. How do you feel?”

“I feel… good.” He smiled up at his father. “Great, actually. Where’s Derek?”

Derek’s doing fine. Just relax and let… well… let things wind down."

Taking this cue from the sheriff, Deaton looked over at Gerard. “How will we know when the procedure is complete?”

“We’ll have to take a blood sample from him. It will be the only way to tell if the virus has completely vacated his system.”

Derek had been holding his own against the effects of the wolfsbane, but now he let out a tremendous growl and lurched up from the table, his body beginning a terrible transformation.

“Scott!” Deaton lunged for Derek, but he snapped the ties holding him on the table and pulled the needles out of his arms. While he was transforming into an alpha state, something was clearly wrong. The musculature was twisted and deformed, and the hair on his face and upper body was matted and even missing, the skin beneath red and swollen.

“I would say that the experiment is concluded,” Gerard said to no one in particular.

It was at this moment that Derek caught sight of the old man and focused his rage and terror on him exclusively. He jumped from the table ready to lunge at the man.

“Derek?”

It was Stiles, still weak, but clearly healed and for just a moment Derek turned his attention from Gerard to Stiles struggling to sit up, but for the ties that bound him to the table.

In two strokes Derek freed him and the boy threw his arms around his deformed, bestial lover and, remarkably, Derek pulled him close, running a clawed hand down the back of Stiles’ head. Then he eased him back down and turned his fury back on Gerard, but the man was gone.

“Derek!” Scott called out, but it was too late. Derek was out the door, hot on the trail of his prey.


	8. Chapter 8

2:00am

Stiles sat in the quiet darkness of the loft and considered the events of the last 24 hours. The faucet still dripped, but he took a strange comfort in the consistency of it. Scott had dropped him off around midnight and then gone home to collapse into an exhausted sleep.

Stiles had stripped and thrown his clothes and trainers into a large trash bag that he had tossed down the garbage chute. He never wanted to see them again.

He had showered, shaved and dressed in fresh clothes. He spoke with his dad, assuring him for the 100th time that he was fine and then told him that he loved him before he let him go and spin the events of the evening into something believable for the local television news. It hadn’t been big enough or important enough to interest CNN.

Derek was out stalking the hapless Gerard. Even with his new found powers he’d be no match for Derek…

Derek.

Stiles considered without apprehension or remorse that from now until the end of his life he would never love anyone else. He discarded any thought that ran toward guilt or the trouble he had caused. It was the result of the supernatural forces that surrounded them. Regardless, Derek’s blood now ran through his veins and his through Derek’s. They’d never be closer and they would never be farther apart.

He was happy. Supremely happy. He sat in a plaid shirt, unbuttoned and loosely fitted, a pair of worn jeans and nothing else. He was aware that he had not come through the night unscathed. Still, he was thankful for his lean, powerful body and his sharp, relentless mind, the residual effects of Derek’s alpha blood. He wanted to strip naked and run through the streets, daring passers-by to try and stop him, testing the limits of his strength and speed.

More than anything else, he wanted to make love, violent, passionate love with the only man who mattered to him now beyond his father. He was sure they’d break every stick of furniture in the place doing it, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was Derek fucking him.

The door to the loft slid open and Derek limped in carrying a squirming, wrapped bundle over his shoulder. He dropped it on the floor and bent down for a kiss, which Stiles gladly gave him.

“Did he give you much trouble?” Stiles asked, looking into his lover’s glowing red eyes.

“Nope,” was all Derek said. Close up, Stiles could see the effects of the wolfsbane. Derek’s face and upper arms were scalded and red. Dr. Deaton had promised him that the effects were only temporary, but for the present he was a little the worse for wear.

“He’s not use to his powers so when he turned it took way too long. He didn’t stand much of a chance.”

He walked back to the bundle, kicked it, and then pulled off the tarpaulin, revealing a bound and gaged Gerard. Stiles smiled at the man, his body battered and cut from the battle he’d had with Derek.

“I doubt he could turn now even if he wanted to,” Derek mentioned, looking down at the lump the way he might regard a mud puddle or a cow pie.

“Cut him loose,” Stiles grinned.

Derek did as he was asked and the man struggled to his knees, staring at the two of them in abject terror.

“What are you going to do? I’m one of you now.”

“You’ll never be one of us,” Stiles said quietly. Gerard noticed that he could see the boy’s eyes glowing in the darkness.

“I carry Derek’s bite,” he pleaded. “I’m part of the pack. I saved your life, without any harm or side-effects!”

“Oh, there were side effects,” Stiles giggled.

“Eh?” Gerard studied him through the darkness. “What are you talking about? You’re… you’re lycan?”

“No, not lycan,” Stiles answered him, the fangs starting to grow out over his bottom lip, his nails curling into vicious claws. “But something.”

“What then?” Gerard’s query was no more than a whisper.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m famished and it’s time for a big breakfast…”

 

The next morning the Beacon Hills police department was deluged with complaints of strange sounds that had kept the populace awake for most of the night. Not screams exactly, but almost screams. Something more guttural and disturbing. The problem was no one was quite sure where the sounds had come from since they seemed to have come from everywhere.

The officers noted the complaints, asked the required questions, then filed them away and went back to their other duties. Probably just a wounded animal they told one another. Something too injured to run, though it was probably trying to run and screamed out in pain as it did so. No matter. It was all over with now.


End file.
